


In Brief Delight, In Joyous Strains

by fluffernutter8



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 remix, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, F/M, Steggy Secret Santa, mentions of the avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 10:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13121826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffernutter8/pseuds/fluffernutter8
Summary: Four Christmases that Steve and Peggy spent together, and two they wished they could have.





	1. A Star Spangled Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plumandfinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumandfinch/gifts).



> This can be read as a continuing narrative or as standalone chapters. Title, following a deep and uncharacteristic dive into Christmas music, from Angels We Have Heard on High.

The girls invite him to the dinner that they’re having, though Tillie jokes that it’s just because they’re all tired and want to draft him into cooking. The hotel they’ve been parked for their Christmas break has a tree, and he actually earns enough that he’d be able to put something under it this year.

But they ended up in Delaware for the week, close enough to Washington that when Senator Brandt had mentioned “a little Christmas Eve get-together” that he was having, Steve hadn’t been able to come up with an excuse.

The party is in some swanky downtown hotel. Steve had worked for a while as a waiter at a slightly less ostentatious place in Manhattan, and he almost wishes he was holding a tray tonight. Even the senator had thought that sticking Steve in his costume was ridiculous, but the uniform that was recommended instead feels even more false and uncomfortable. You don’t earn a uniform like this with magic muscles and some good stage patter. The only blessing is that they hadn’t stuck on the medals Captain America had allegedly won during his soundstage missions. Steve goes out of his way to avoid the actual uniformed officers there tonight; they don’t seek him out, which helps.

On the other hand, everyone else at the party seems as if they can’t think of a better thing to do than spend Christmas Eve shaking his hand. More than one couple tells him that their children have seen him in the newsreels or at a show, that they’ve been collecting the comics where he’s featured, and he smooths his face and resists the urge to ask whether their children will really be more pleased with Captain America’s autograph than with their parents spending the holiday at home.

By ten in the evening, Steve’s hand feels so sore that he’s considering asking for a refund on the procedure. Instead, he spots a door down the hallway with a little plaque beside it reading Library. He grips a smile to his face as he moves slowly through the room, and within five minutes, he’s leaning with his eyes closed, his back against the door, and letting out a sigh.

“Well, Captain, let no one say that your evasive maneuvers aren’t impressive.”

He startles up, not because he doesn’t recognize the voice, but because he does, immediate and disbelieving. He scans the room, all the stereotypical private library trappings - heavy wood panels, fireplace, shelves and shelves of heavy, pompously bound books - until he notices her face peering shadowed from behind a high-backed brocade armchair.

“Agent Carter.” He checks around the room once again, just to make sure he hasn’t stumbled into some sort of top secret meeting and happened to miss an entire group of military members and covert operatives. Apparently it’s just her, or else he needs to give spies a hell of a lot more credit. He steps forward. “I hadn’t realized you were here.”

“Colonel Phillips was detained and sent me to appease the room in his stead.” He still can’t see her entirely, but her tone indicates that Colonel Phillips has been detained by his lack of desire to attend this event. Agent Carter gestures, motioning Steve to take a seat in the chair beside her.

“I don’t actually remember Colonel Phillip being the appeasing type.” Steve comes around the chair to sit, just in time to see her smile.

Agent Carter has her hair perfectly curled, her lipstick still fresh at the end of the night. She wears her uniform rather than a formal dress, and it looks like she’s earned it.

“Typically I am the more conciliatory of the two of us. However, like the colonel and Mr. Churchill, I also began to find appeasement a bit ineffective this evening.” She holds a book in her hands, a slim volume that doesn’t match those along the walls. She closes it, looking down at the cover and then back up at him. “One can only be told so many times that it was a shame that all the boys were overseas or I could be at home instead of forced to enlist. I generally prefer a more stimulating conversation without quite so much pigeonholing.” 

Steve leans back in his chair. He wants to unbutton his jacket, but hers is so regulation crisp. “I don’t think that you’ll find that here. This crowd is pretty happy to pigeonhole.”

“It is an especially unfortunate way to spend Christmas Eve.”

“I’m sure you had plans, too,” says Steve. “Bet your family wishes that they could see you.” He says it softly, trying for casual, but he knows that she likely picked up on his attempt to find out more about her.

Fortunately, she just looks amused. He’s stepped in it every time they’ve been around each other thus far, so maybe she expects it by now. “Unfortunately, with the demands of my work, a celebration together was never likely.”

“Well, you must have some family traditions. Maybe we could recreate one here.”

Something changes about her smile, something to do with the blink of her eye, the tip of her head. “We’re a largely traditional family, I have to say. My father and brother would insist on singing through our old book of carols in its entirety, despite their dreadful voices. My mother would make a decent turkey that would keep us in leftovers for days, and she would invest hours in getting the pudding absolutely perfect. And at the end of the night, we’d all end up toasting things in the sitting room fire.” There’s a closed door nostalgia to her voice, a sense that she’ll never be able to go back to those tender times. She blinks, sighs a sharply audible breath in and out, and when she’s finished, she looks wry instead of soft and sad. “One year my brother almost lit his socks on fire. Then he outdid himself the next by nearly catching my hair.”

“We already have one step taken care of in the way of traditions.” Steve gestures to the fireplace in front of them. “I bet we could scrounge up something to toast.”

“There’s isn’t much in here to put in the fire except the books,” she reminds him. “I don’t think they’ll toast well, and I do have a firm stance against book burning.”

“I don’t think anyone here’ll miss ‘em,” Steve says. He has the feeling that he’d have to cut apart the pages himself to open any one of the volumes lining the shelves, and he wouldn’t even be surprised if he opened up the fancy covers and found only white paper. “But I take your point.”

“And what about you? Any Christmas traditions that we can attempt?”

“I always looked forward to the orange in my stocking. One year, I forgot to fix up the hole in my sock and I guess the orange pressed on it all night ‘til the hole was big enough for the orange to slip out and roll away. I spent half an hour trying to track it down. I didn’t even think our place was big enough to hide something for that long.” He grins a little, remembering how steamed he’d been. Now the memory feels sweet and cushioned, the words needing gentle, loving speaking. “When I finally found it, my ma told me I should be glad it was an orange and not an apple - no bruises on an orange, and the skin it was sitting around in peels right off.”

She laughs. “Good advice. Very practical woman, your mother.”

“She really was,” Steve says. He has relaxed a bit in the chair, feeling finally a bit comfortable with her, feeling heart-full in a way he hasn’t in a long time. He’s about to tell her about the time his mother had gotten him watercolors and let him use them on the windows when he was confined to bed for half of December and into January, but the door opens behind them and they both still.

“Rogers, good, there you are.” Senator Brandt’s loud voice makes Steve suddenly aware of the sounds of the party still in progress outside. “Break’s over, Ned Fuller’s finally here and he’d love to chat. And if you could figure out a way to bring up your feelings about flood control, I think it’d really be worth your while.”

Steve forces himself to stand. He locks eyes with Agent Carter, pressed small and silent in her armchair with her feet tucked up, no broad shoulders or stray elbows to give her away. She gives him a smile and a wink. He knows he must smile back - it’s automatic, smiling when he looks at her - but the senator leads him away before he can even mouth a goodbye.

The party finally ends, the last people laughing and waving at Steve and the senator. Steve waves back, hoping they’ll mistake his gritted teeth for a smile, and considers how big a headache he’d have if he could still get headaches.

They’re putting Steve up in Washington for the night, but not even Captain America gets as ritzy a bedroom as the ones in the hotel where the party had been. He’s staying across town, and after the endless shaking of endless hands, he’s never been happier to see a simple bed and dresser setup.

His eyes already closed, he flops onto the mattress, trying not to do it with his full weight, and lies facedown for a moment, his hands draping off the bed and onto the floor.

His fingers brush against something just poking out under the dust ruffle. Frowning, he grasps it and picks it up.

The orange doesn’t come with a note. He puts it on his nightstand, and the next morning holds it carefully the entire train ride back to Delaware, where the girls tease him for not coming back with a better souvenir and tell him he’s looking strangely goony-eyed.

He doesn’t know how exactly it got to his room, but he has a good enough idea.


	2. A Surprise Christmas

Even when Peggy hasn’t had intel ahead of time, she can always tell when she drops into a camp that Steve Rogers and his troops have been using as a base. There’s a certain murmur, easily sensed if one knows how, that tells her when they’ve suddenly arrived, marching out of the woods, bearing captured technology or prisoners of war, or just the good news of another target taken care of.

Peggy’s been back in Italy for week. She knows that Captain America and his merry men (yes, she knows what they’re called, she’s seen the film reels, but she’s also met them) arrived on her third day. So far, the only one she’s actually seen is Jones, and she trusts him to keep it quiet.

At around twenty past eleven, she finishes the last of her reports and rewards herself with a little stretch and a massage of her own shoulders. But that seems like fairly poor reward, so she gets up and starts toward the mess to find herself a cup of tea and, if she had found favor with the report gods, something sweet to go with it.

Things are quiet as she walks over, until she gets close. That’s when she hears the arguing.

“I’m not asking for a turkey dinner, just a chocolate bar or two. I heard you had some real Hershey’s.” There’s a shuffling sound, and then the voice returns, clearly attempting to sound charming. “I’ve got something to trade.”

“You think you’re so special, you deserve a little something?” A pot clangs, the sound extraordinarily loud in the night. “Think I just have candy bars lying around? Think I can be bought? Well I’m not charmed by your suit, flag boy. Beat it.”

She considers ducking into the shadows. The thought of a retreat, soft-footed, back to her tent whips through her mind. But instead she squares her shoulder and looks directly at Steve Rogers as he comes around the corner.

“Peggy– Agent–” Rogers settles into resigned rather than hand-in-the-cookie-jar startled. “I guess you heard that?”

“I hadn’t realized that you were attempting subtlety,” she says dryly.

“I promise, I was trying. My friend back there was just less cooperative.”

“Well, according to him you were trying to attain special privileges and insulting his honor in the process. I wouldn’t have cooperated either.”

“I’m about to head back to the drawing board,” he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in a way that Peggy knows is purely demonstrative; he’s been sleeping on the opposite end of camp. “Any more tips before I go?”

“What were you offering him in trade?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two unopened box of Lucky Strikes. “I’ve got plenty. He could have been cigarette king of the camp, easy.”

Peggy laughs. “Perhaps next time offer to wash a few pots instead. If he’s not cleaning up until near midnight, he might be in a better mood.”

He grins back, shaking his head in a self-deprecating way as he puts the cigarettes back in his pocket. “I think that advice will be key to the plan.” He gives her a nod and looks as if he’s going to move past her and head to his own bunk.

“Captain,” she says, interrupting his step. “Why were you asking for the chocolate in the first place? Dr. Erskine anticipated a need for significantly increased caloric intake as a result of the procedure. If you’re finding yourself undernourished, I’m sure we can authorize additional rations for you.”

“No, it’s–” He blushes a little, which, while very becoming, surprises her. “It’s personal.”

“Ah.” How he’s planning to get chocolate from the battlefields of Italy to a sweetheart somewhere else is really none of her business. Really. None. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Good night.” She begins walking away herself. She truly deserves her tea now.

“It’s September,” he blurts, and when she turns back, he has his hands awkwardly in his pockets.

“I’m sorry?”

“Bucky and I– Sargeant Barnes–” As if she wouldn’t know who he’s talking about. “We grew up together. We were each born around a holiday - his birthday’s near Christmas - and sometimes the birthday part would get lost in the shuffle. In grade school, we decided to split the difference, start celebrating for ourselves in between July and December.” He looks down, continuing even with his voice soft with embarrassment. “September 26th is when we do it, because it’s halfway. I’m cutting it a little close this year, but there’s not much at a Hydra base that’s worth giving as a Christmas in September gift, and I knew Buck would really appreciate a good chocolate bar.”

On one level, there’s something a bit strange about retaining a childhood tradition for decades, deciding that celebrating some amalgam of birthday and personal holiday is important enough to take it through poverty and war. But on another level… “That’s very sweet.”

“That wasn’t exactly our reputation back in the day.” A smile lifts the shy corners of his mouth. “I might ask for a signed affidavit for a few of our old neighbors.”

“I’ll consider it. But for now, I might be able to help you in your quest for chocolate.” She smiles back.

“I think I might be done questing for the night,” he says, glancing ruefully over his shoulder as if worried that someone might be bearing down on him with a ladle, the yelling from earlier not having been satisfactory. “But I guess tomorrow is another day. I’ll appreciate any groundwork that you might be able to lay.”

“I’ll do my best,” says Peggy, and starts toward her tea again.

“I have to apologize,” he says before she’s taken three steps. Before she can ask to what he’s referring, he continues, “The things I said about you and Stark, that wasn’t…” _Gentlemanly_ , she imagines he’ll say. Or possibly _appropriate_. Both of which are true, but she doesn’t need an apology because she’s a woman or even because she outranks him. As much as she wishes otherwise, she wants an apology because she’d hoped for him to be different, more, and he had disappointed her with his blustering accusations that weren’t sharp to her as much as they were typical, painful mostly because they came from him and she’d raised her hopes, thinking he would know better. 

“That wasn’t kind,” he says instead. “It had nothing to do with anything, and it wasn’t my business, anyway.”

The words are spare, the tone sincere. Nothing he’s said is saccharine and there’s no beating of the chest, but he isn’t wrong about his mistakes either. Some part of her, exhausted at the idea of having to be above and beyond, to prove everyone wrong for the rest of her life, keeps her tone even. But the part that had hoped that she’d been right, that he was the man with the picture hidden in his compass rather than the man wiping lipstick off his mouth at any opportunity, says, “I appreciate that, Captain. And while I know that perhaps it isn’t my business either, I’ve heard that Private Lorraine can be very...eager.”

“One way to put it,” he mutters, and her mouth twitches, amused.

They stand in silence for a moment. “If that’s all…?” she hedges finally.

“I wouldn’t mind if it was your business,” he blurts. “Someday.” He can’t entirely seem to look at her anymore, but he adds, “If it might be convenient.”

It’s very difficult to fight the instinctual laughter this time, but she manages. And then she considers not his delivery but his proposal, and seriousness becomes suddenly easier. “I believe a someday could be convenient for me,” Peggy says.

Until she says the words, she hasn’t thought about the possibility of anyone else listening to their conversation, but the idea of someone hearing her say that shakes her. The words are technically fine, but her tone isn’t regulation and anyone who heard it would know. She keeps her distance as she says, “But in the meantime, we’ll see if we can find some real chocolate for Christmas in September.”

“Right,” he says, the word straightening up suddenly as he is just remembering. “That would be nice. For now.”

“For now,” she says, trying very hard to care that there’s a war and a hierarchy, and that neither of them sound at all casual. But instead she just manages to say, “Good night, Steve,” and finally make her way past him toward the tea.


	3. Christmas with the Commandos

Steve finds out, much to his dismay, that when Dum Dum said, “The Dugans love to get into the Christmas spirit!” it wasn’t so much casual conversation as a subtle and calculated understatement.

“Not how I usually think of him,” Jones comments, but he accepts a bottle of whatever Dugan’s handing around regardless.

“Is there any chance at all that you’ll remember that we’re attempting subterfuge behind enemy lines?” Monty asks dryly, watching as Dugan whistles his boisterous way through “Winter Wonderland” while draping pine branches over the fireplace of the cabin where they’ve been lying low.

“Any chance you’ll lighten up, old man?” Dugan slap him on the back as he moves by. “It’s Christmas! A time of joy and miracles.”

“Being with you boys is certainly a joy,” Bucky says. “But I haven’t seen much evidence of miracles so far.” 

“This party had better not just be a couple bottles of booze and whatever rations you’ve set aside, because it’s bloody freezing out and it might not have been worth the walk just to see you miscreants.”

Steve’s chair cracks down heavily against the floorboards from where it had been leaning against the wall. “Any chance at all that you’ll be able take it easy over there?” Bucky mutters to him as Peggy comes into the room, lightly trailing snow, with Morita right behind her.

“Carter!” Dugan comes over to put an arm around her. “Glad you made it.”

Peggy brushes moisture off of her shoulders and unwraps herself from her coat and scarf. “Well,” she says, her tone softer. “You did invite me, and I was in the neighborhood.”

From what Steve can recall, the camp where she’d last been working, the closest to where they’re positioned now, is several dozen miles away.

Morita comes over to sit with them at the table, shoving his own coat onto the back of his chair. “I’ll take my thanks for delivering our honored guest.” He gestures for Jones to pass him the bottle, throwing back a swig immediately.

“The honor’s all mine.” From over his shoulder, Peggy easily takes the bottle out of his hand and drinks some herself. She settles herself at the table before she gives the bottle back. Her eyes catch Steve’s and she smiles, warmly, just at him. He smiles back (of course he does; the idea that he wouldn’t is ludicrous) and takes stock of her - the perfect lipstick even in the snowy night, the damp edges to her hair - before Peggy turns and says, “Well, now that we’ve ticked off booze from the list, what has the US Army provided in the way of a main course?”

“Think about maybe giving me a break for Christmas,” Dum Dum says to Peggy. “Especially since I think you’ll change your mind after this.” He brings over the steel mess kit he’s been using as a pan and tending to by the fireplace. Keeping a hand on the lid, he starts, “Now, I asked Frenchy out there what we could eat from the forest–”

“I’ll take D-rations over this,” Morita objects immediately. “Should’ve let me do the cooking.”

They all ignore that. Dernier is usually good at whipping up something from nothing, but even after several near poisonings, Morita just keeps trying. The smell has started to seep out from under the steel lid. Falsworth, sniffing delicately, says, “Whatever it is, it seems not to be for the faint of heart.”

Steve and Bucky look at each other. “Toss it, Dum,” Bucky orders, and reaching into his pocket, pulls out several sausages wrapped in a handkerchief, along with some potatoes. Steve goes for his pockets too, glad not for the first time that he’s in regulation uniform rather than his Captain America suit - he can’t store anything in that thing. He adds some biscuits and a few of pieces of fruit to the collection on the table.

“You rob someone on the way here?” Jones asks once everyone’s finished staring. 

“More likely they happened to pass the home of a comely widow with a surprisingly well-stocked larder,” says Peggy shrewdly.

“Of course not,” Steve tells her earnestly, as Bucky simultaneously says, “Basically.”

“If you had this all along, then why the hell did I have to go mushroom picking?” Dugan demands.

“Well, you were having such a good time,” says Steve. “Seemed a shame to ruin it for you.”

“And we wanted to see how resourceful you could be,” Bucky adds.

“Apparently not very,” says Peggy, picking up the mess kit by the handle and making sure to continue to keep the lid tightly closed. She walks over to the door, opens it in a shiver of wind, and dumps out their former dinner into the snow. “Now,” she says, walking back over to the table, “I believe I was promised a party.”

Steve only stays for a little while after: Dernier’s been on watch for a couple of hours and Steve can hold up better against the cold. Jacques thanks him for the relief in a blustery rush that includes two cheek kisses (at least he thinks it’s thanks; his French is getting better, but it isn’t that good) and takes himself back inside. Steve settles into his spot, half wishing he were still inside (Peggy has a rendezvous with a plane to fly her back to London early tomorrow morning, and he’s missing a holiday spent in the warmth with friends. Also the sausages had finished cooking as he came out, and they smelled incredible) and half glad that he wasn’t (Dum Dum had started the singing again, and the rest were now drunk enough to join him).

The night is loud, but only in a country way: whistling wind and rustling branches, small scrabbles of whatever animals are about. He can make out, very faintly, the low chorus from inside, but he isn’t worried. They’d chosen this place for its remoteness, and the watch is mostly protocol and precaution.

Judging by the moon, he has no damn idea how long he’s been outside, but he’d guess close to an hour before the door opens behind him and he hears the light, crisp sound of footsteps in the snow.

“Here,” Peggy says, coming to sit beside him. She hands him a tin cup, still steaming slightly. “I thought you might enjoy this.”

He takes a sip. He’s never been particularly fond of tea in general, and this cup is fairly bland, but he has to hide a smile as he drinks. “Thank you,” he says. Although he doesn’t get cold the way he used to, even the chilly press of snow or a bite of wind can remind him of how he used to be consumed by the winters. The warmth of the cup in his hands and against his mouth isn’t what he’s grateful for, though, not really.

“Sounds like it’s winding down in there,” he comments idly.

“Yes,” she says. “They’ve decided to be old men about it. Half of them are taking advantage of the opportunity for extra sleep, and the others are performing dirges by the fire.”

“That sounds responsible of them,” Steve says dubiously.

Peggy waves a hand. He notices that she’s wearing green gloves with a slightly lumpy knit. “I’m sure you’ll wake up to Morita trying to make breakfast out of snow and cigarettes and you’ll know things are back to normal.”

Steve gives a resigned shrug. “I wish he’d just believe that it’s the craftsman not the tools before I have to eat one more of his experiments. I think I’ve seen tastier stuff in Howard’s lab.”

“Speaking of,” she says, reaching into her pocket. “I managed to save this from the ravaging horde.”

It’s an entire half a sausage, the skin crispy. When she passes it to him, it is still slightly warm against his palm. “How’d you manage this?” he asks, awed.

“Perhaps you underestimated me, Captain,” she says, but it’s an arch tease instead of indignant, stiff insult.

Steve clears his throat. It doesn’t keep the emotion or the weight out of his voice as he says, “Impossible.”

The moon is bright enough through the tree cover that he can see her smile. He only realizes that she’s moved closer when he feels the warmth of her against his side. He takes out his pocket knife and cuts off a chunk of sausage. He offers the first one to her, and then cuts off a piece for himself.

No church service, no big dinner, and if he didn’t run a temperature all the time now, he’d be freezing his ears off outside in the dark.

His men are in by the fire. Peggy is sitting by his side.

It’s an excellent Christmas.


	4. A Quiet Christmas

Peggy’s parents moved deep out into the country several years into the war. Being away from the city, far from the frequent air raid sirens and the concerns of their house flattened as collateral damage, removed from the memories of Michael, helped her father’s nerves. Now, even with the threat definitively over, they stayed in their new little house, tucked cozily in the Cotswolds. It meant that they had a small Christmas ham and plenty of potatoes despite the persistent rationing. It meant that the place Peggy came home to for Christmas had none of the memories of her childhood, was nowhere near her brother’s grave, and bore no resemblance to the house she’d imagined bringing Steve to meet her parents.

“You’ve been very quiet,” Peggy’s mother remarks as they sit together on Christmas Eve. Peggy’s father has already gone to bed, pressing a distracted kiss to her hair before he began to slowly climb the creaking stairs. Peggy has her legs curled up on the old family sofa, a hideous, delightful mauve thing, so overfilled that as a child it made Peggy wonder if there was another piece of furniture going around with starving for stuffing. She has a book on her lap, one that she is barely reading. Her mother sits in the armchair opposite, the light glinting on the silver of her hair and eyeglasses. She has turned on music but keeps it low, needle threading calmly in and out as she sews.

Amanda Carter hums along with a bit of the song playing in the background as she waits for Peggy to say something. Whatever tumultuous disapproval their relationship might have had in the past, whatever vague anger that Peggy has about the constant childhood drumbeat to be a lady that had made her doubt her own potential, she admires her mother. Her calm makes the room feel at ease, makes Peggy almost let out the full truth. But the idea of speaking it aloud is too tender. “It’s been a very quiet Christmas,” is all she says.

“Yes.” Amanda’s hands still for a moment. Her hair, Peggy notices then, no longer even hints at the light brown it once was. The sounds of the room - the crackling fire, the ticking clock - seem less calm and picturesque and more daunting now. “I had always imagined that there would be a new generation on its way by this point.”

For all that it could be pointedly blameful or even grief-stricken, the statement is mostly fading and exhausted and sad. Peggy looks back at her book, fingering the pages. Her old copy of _Persuasion_ has softened, familiar edges, and she’s glad that her parents thought to move it with them. “Well,” she says, trying to sound brisk and businesslike, difficult around a lump in the throat, “it seems that it will be just us for a while yet.”

“I was rather under the impression,” her mother says slowly, laying down her sewing, “that you might have...someone.”

 _Would it be better_ , Peggy wonders, _if she would just ask directly?_ Likely not: at least this way she could avoid answering, or put off her mother with a word. But the people who would even ask the question have grown fewer, so Peggy gathers herself. “There was someone,” she says. “He was a very good man, and the world is worse off for not having him here.” She tries to keep it simple. She doesn’t know where exactly the words turned choked, and she certainly didn’t agree to tears.

“And what about you?” asks her mother, with such gentleness that it makes Peggy think of her earliest, vaguest memories, of being held snuggly, of burrowing her head against a trusted shoulder.

“I go on,” Peggy says. “I try to keep the world as good a place as it can be.” She looks down at her lap. Her mother moves from the chair to sit beside Peggy. She grips her daughter’s wrist, fingers wrapping with such presence. Peggy tries to laugh, tries to shrug, but a sob comes out instead, shaky and quiet. “I have more quiet Christmases.”

Mum leans her forehead against Peggy’s hair, her palm against Peggy’s opposite temple, holding her close. “You’ll have so many more joyous Christmases. I promise, sweet girl.”

Amanda Carter lost her son in war. In some ways, she lost her husband. Peggy tries to remember that, tries to take solace in her experience. She tries to believe. But a Christmas of light and music and jubilation seems very far away, years and years, if ever.


	5. A Christmas Alone

Even Christmas is different now. The _volume_ of everything, the advertising, the lights, everyone looking for the tallest tree, the newest toys, the brightest decorations - he’s been here almost half a year, and he still finds it overwhelming.

Tony has the tower lit up in a different color or with a new message projected on it every day of December, and he’d mentioned to everyone that they can hang out there for the holiday if they don’t have any plans. The implication in Steve’s mind was that they’d all end up there, but then Clint and Natasha were sent on assignment, and Bruce needed to take some time to himself to get his headspace back, and Tony realized that he’d promised Pepper a week on an island before some conference they’re attending in the new year, and no one expected Thor to come anyway.

Steve goes to Midnight Mass at St. Patrick’s alone. Getting the tickets is the first time he’s used his name and face to get anything. Inside the massive cathedral, sitting in a pew beside a woman in a neat suit with a poinsettia pinned to her jacket, it feels like a good decision. He finds himself dwarfed by the space and its presence instead of shrunken inside his own body, his own mind.

The service has changed a little, but it’s mostly familiar. The choir sings O Holy Night, soaring, and then O Little Town of Bethlehem hushes over the congregation and it settles in his chest the way it always did.

As he stands, waiting for the rest of the row to file out, he feels as if he can face his quiet apartment. But then the woman in front of him turns her head as she puts on her scarf and her curls catch the light in a certain way, and he finds himself hit, suddenly and clearly, with the image of opening presents with Peggy under the tree. The way her hair would be a bit tousled against the collar of her robe, how she’d open the paper carefully at first and then just tear off a large, satisfying piece so she can see if she’d correctly guessed what’s inside.

It’s just this one perfect image, real as touch. He doesn’t know if there are children or if it’s just the two of them, if they stayed in New York or went to California or England or _anywhere_. Whatever Peggy wants, whatever could get him this…

“I’m sorry?” The woman in front of him looks at him over her shoulder, puzzled. With the changed angle of the light, her hair isn’t the right color at all. Steve just shakes his head at her, and then the man behind him shifts, and Steve remembers to move forward.

He turns up his coat collar as he steps out into the night. He can wander for a while, but he knows eventually he’ll just have to go home.

He hadn’t gotten a tree or any of the varieties of lights and decorations now available. The idea of leaving a present for himself was too sad for him to even contemplate.

Steve puts his hands in his pockets. He walks into the departing crowd, and hopes to be lost.


	6. A Christmas in the Future

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Steve asks grimly.

“I don’t believe that really matters,” Peggy answers, flexing her fingers determinedly. “When something important must be done, we come through. Regardless of the cost.”

Steve squeezes her hand once across the gearshift, then puts on the baseball cap he insists on for stealth. He pulls it low over his brow as Peggy rolls her eyes. He’s married to a spy, but apparently he’ll never learn.

Peggy already has her lipstick on, the only bolster she needs, so she takes one last look out the window, examining the building from the outside and reviewing the schematics in her mind. The steps of their plan are simple and clear, but she knows that the reality will be different.

“Time to move,” she says definitively, and they both step out of the car. They touch hands but don’t grasp as they move in resolute step toward the shopping complex.

 

Three hours later, Peggy has finished wrapping their gifts and Steve is putting the final touches on the handmade cards.

“Don’t forget the badgers,” Peggy tells him, resting sideways in her chair for a moment before she begins to clean the ribbons and paper scraps, head tipped against her arms where they lean on the back. “The last time we were there–”

“It was all Liv talked about for the whole afternoon. I remember.” Steve tilts the card slightly so that she can see that a pair of smiling, round-bellied badgers borders the words penned neatly in the center: _Merry Christmas, Olivia Jane._

Peggy nods, satisfied. Although she has enough nicknames for six children, Liv does prefer a level of formality in her correspondence. Peggy drifts a bit, looking at the presents, wondering if perhaps she should add more curly ribbon before she decides that no matter what Pepper tries, all of the outer layers are just going to end up torn on the floor in half a second.

It doesn’t really matter. She and Steve have certainly done their duty as godparents by braving a shopping trip so close to Christmas Eve just because the twins confided on Skype that their new, true, _secret_ desire was the recently released FurReal tiger. (Although as soon as Peggy had seen the toy, she knew that what they really wanted to do was play with the toy for a few minutes before they moved on to trying to reprogram it. The girls are only four, so they apparently haven’t realized that their father will do anything for them. If they merely mentioned it, Tony would have their joint lab built by the end of the day, including child-sized screwdrivers.)

“Ellie’s should be purple,” Peggy says idly, finally managing to push herself to her feet and head into the kitchen to unpack the Chinese takeout that’s just arrived for dinner. Steve, shading with his face near the paper, merely holds up a distracted handful of colored pencils (violet, lavender, plum) in response.

By the time Peggy has gotten out glasses and drinks, along with plates and forks so that they’ll at least have the option of using them rather than eating directly from the cartons, Steve has finished illustrating and carefully affixing the cards to the packages. She looks at the lovely drawings he’s spent so much time on and decides not to mention her wrapping-on-the-floor suspicions.

They sit on the couch to eat, talking a little by the light of the tree they decorated last week. Steve doesn’t even complain when Peggy takes most of the egg pieces from the fried rice, and picks around the nuts in the cashew chicken even though she’s the one who always wants to order it. For her part, she says nothing when he checks to make sure she’s not watching and then wipes his fingers on his jeans rather than get a napkin.

“I think I’ve managed to find the perfect thing for you this year,” Peggy remarks as they close up the containers scattered over the coffee table.

Steve kisses the side of her head as he moves toward the refrigerator. “You always get me the perfect thing,” he says. Peggy rolls her eyes. Since she showed up six years ago, a copy Howard sent unknowingly from the SHIELD lab in 1948, Steve has insisted that she shouldn’t bother to get him any gifts, that her presence was the biggest gift he could ever ask for. A sweet sentiment, but it makes him _impossible_ to shop for.

Peggy is fairly confident this year, however, so she lets it go. Steve turns on the TV to put on _Miracle on 34th Street_ , their now-traditional Christmas (or pre-Christmas) movie. At Pepper and Tony’s, they watch _White Christmas_ and _It’s A Wonderful Life_ and half a dozen others, but this is just theirs. 

“I’m probably going to fall asleep,” Steve warns as he settles on the couch and lets her curl herself against him. Although since the twins were born he’s been taking on more and more from Tony in terms of safeguarding New York, this week he’s exhausted not from anything Avengers related, but because Captain America visits are a popular request around the holidays and there are too many that Steve can’t bring himself to turn down. Their shopping trip tonight likely sapped his last reserves of energy.

Peggy pats his chest. “That’s alright. I prefer my chauffeur well-rested.” They’ve planned to leave early tomorrow to head up to the Stark family manse for Christmas Eve festivities.

“I’m the chauffeur now too, huh?” Even with drooping eyes and hair falling into his face, Steve manages to sound cheeky. “I’m not sure you’re pulling your weight in this relationship.”

“Well, I did stop you from getting stabbed by that woman in the light-up sweater when we were walking through the homegoods section earlier,” Peggy points out.

“You’re right. I’ll be happy to keep you.”

“I suppose I could be happy to be kept.” 

The now-familiar movie plays on. Just from his breathing, Peggy knows that Steve hasn’t made it even ten minutes in.

“I’m glad we’re getting to see the girls tomorrow,” she says a few minutes later, watching Susan have her first meeting with Santa Claus on the screen. “It’s been too long.” Steve makes some sort of reflexive affirming sound in the back of his throat. “I had never considered having children in my life, really, but being around those two…” She shifts her head, half watching the screen as she listens to Steve’s heart keep time with hers. _By this time next year, we might have some in this house_ , she thinks, and almost says it aloud before she decides that Steve might still have some level of consciousness and she doesn’t want to ruin the surprise.

Instead she just pauses the movie and takes their plush throw off the back of the sofa to drape over herself. “I think the ‘Merry Christmas to all’ quotation might be appropriate,” she murmurs as she gets comfortable. For all his muscles, Steve is actually a fairly decent pillow.

Leaning against him, warm in the dark, she confides, “This might be my favorite Christmas so far.” Steve somehow still manages to make a vague agreeing noise, holding her closer. Peggy smiles. It doesn’t matter that he’s asleep. She knows that he knows: every Christmas they spend together is her favorite.


End file.
